


Jalph Ficlets

by whyisthisfrenchguymasturbating



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, Ficlet, Lime, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Vignette, sam is a trans girl cause i fucking said so, the writing is pretentious and im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-05-16 17:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14815533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyisthisfrenchguymasturbating/pseuds/whyisthisfrenchguymasturbating
Summary: Oneshot poetic bullshit about various parts of Jack & Ralph's relationship.





	1. Cowardice

**Author's Note:**

> yeah i know this reads pretentiously as fuck but pls forgive me

**EDIT:** This work has been updated and reposted [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18218615)! Please go read that one if you liked this, because I'm much, much happier with the new version. This version is only still up so people who liked this fic can come back and see that I'm scrapping/updating it, and for me to look back on as a writer.

 

It was never meant to go so far.  
It had started as a simple flirtation; coy remarks in the hall, brushing against each other in passing, soft glances across rooms.  
It evolved much more rapidly than they'd expected; became words half-whispered in the dark, lips brushing over bare skin, fingertips gently caressing cheeks. Pale blue eyes illuminated by moonlight pouring through windows. Clothing discarded on floors. Bruises blooming across necks and collarbones.  
It was never supposed to be serious; they had never intended to truly care for each other.  
But fate had other ideas.  
Winter break. Tears barely held back in the furthest corner of the library, hands shaking, dark circles under droopy eyes. Gentle kisses pressed to shaking fingers, tears brushed off cheeks, emotions slowly calmed.  
Weeks later, a promise whispered against bare shoulders. Their first lunch spent together, lips meeting desperately in the empty choir room. A decision to ignore the opinions of others;  
_“We are the only two people in the world. No one else matters.”_  
Weakness. Falling deeply, irrevocably, in something close to, but not quite, love. Assurances that nothing, no one, would ever separate them.  
_“Never. Let them try. I’d sooner bleed them dry then let them take you.”_  
Nonetheless, they knew it could never last. The world was too cruel; “polite society” would do everything in its power to rip them apart.  
They toyed with the idea of running off together; packing their trunks and fleeing. Catching a train to the country and never looking back.  
_“I can't do that to my family. You know I can't.”_  
_“You could try.”_  
_“I can't-”_  
_“I would try for you.”_  
Their nights together became more sparse, and infinitely more heated. Long scratches left on backs, deep purple bruises, angry red bite marks, all reminders that _you belong to me and I belong to you, always._  
_“Forever?”_  
_“Forever.”_  
Summer holidays. Both of them stayed at the school, making excuses about catching up on classes and taking up extra summer studies. Long, sunny days spent together, curled up under their favorite tree. Late nights wandering around cobblestone streets, laughter bubbling up in breaths between kisses. Lazy mornings in bed, curled in each other’s arms as if they could stay there forever.  
But, of course, it had to come to an end.  
_“My parents have decided they want me to marry.”_  
Angry tears welling in frosty blue eyes, pale hands clenched into fists, a voice shaking from fury.  
_“I'm sorry. It's not my decision. Please don't-”_  
“You’re a coward.”  
“Jack, please-”  
“A bloody coward. You could have-”  
“They would disown me. You know that.”  
“So what?! Is your inheritance more important to you than me?”  
“I-”  
“Don't answer that.”  
Anger slowly turning to disgust. A leather jacket, given away on a cold day and worn so lovingly through the last several months, snatched back up from a desk chair.  
_“You're a coward, Ralph.”_  
The muggy summer air suddenly felt freezing. Fingers nervously clasping together, teary eyes darting around to avoid contact with the other’s.  
_“I know I am.”_  
A snort of disgust, a turn of a heel, and a sharp slam of a door.  
And then crushing, sudden loneliness.  
Aching hearts.  
Endless longing.  
Wrenching, crushing regret.  
Lingering smells on pillows and sheets.  
Photos shoved in a shoebox and hidden in the back of a closet.  
Memories, once so sweet, turned sour and painful.  
Everything was frigid, and unbearably slow.  
They desperately wanted to take it back; to return to those days spent together, arms wound tightly around one another, fingers curling through messy hair. Heads resting on shoulders, thumbs quietly flipping the pages of a book, cigarette smoke hanging lazily in the air. Kisses that tasted of cheap rum and butterscotch candy. Imperfect, damaged, but happy. Endlessly, madly, fatally in love.  
But it was gone, just as quickly as the leaves began to change colors in the fall.  
And, after that day, their lives were immutably altered.


	2. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicide attempt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> serious trigger warning for attempted suicide; this is more of a vent chapter than anything

You began bleeding before I even knew what happened.  
Long, thin cuts gave way to deep, gushing wounds.  
I wish I could have helped you.  
Your eyes were hazy, even as I pushed you into the car and sped to the hospital.  
You merely croaked out a bitter laugh, and told me it was too late, that you'd already decided to go, and that I was going to have to let you.  
Fuck that.  
They wouldn't let me follow when they took you back. I waited hours, the clock in the waiting room ticking at an agonizingly slow rate. I held my breath and waited for someone, anyone, to tell me you were okay.  
Finally, they did.  
You wouldn't look at me for a long time. Only stared out the window on your wall, making snide remarks about how it would have been easier to jump out. But I've known you long enough to know what you sound like when you're afraid.  
I wish I knew how to comfort you.  
Slowly, over endless weeks, you got better. Your scars faded into long, pale snakes on your skin. Your eyes became less dull and in November I saw you smile for the first time in months.  
I cried for hours after that.  
I try to understand why you hate yourself so much. I really do. But I'll never be able to look at you in a bad light.  
You are so, so beautiful. Everything around you is bathed in golden light when you walk. Moonlight feels lucky just for the opportunity to caress your cheek. Flowers wilt in shame when you pass. You have always been so beautiful, and I never deserved you. Falling in love with you was the cruelest thing I've ever done.  
You are my everything.  
I know this has never been healthy; but oh, God, do I try.  
After you got out of the hospital, you told me you needed to leave for a while. You said you were going to stay with some friends, in a bakery on the coast. Your voice was soft and timid, and I tried for your sake to pretend the idea of you going didn't break my heart.  
I know it was what's best for you.  
I'm vindictive and jealous and overprotective, and I know you need your space. If you really love me, you said, you'll be able to give me that.  
I try so hard to do what's best for you, darling.  
We spent our last day together in bed; wound around each other just as tightly as we used to be, when this all began. I watched you sleep; your arms curled loosely around my waist, and your head on my chest. I wish I could have taken a picture. You looked so peaceful like that.  
We said goodbye in the kitchen. You wrapped your arms around my shoulders and kissed me, promising tearfully that you'd call me as soon as you got there. I buried my face in your hair and tried to steady myself, to convince myself that this wouldn't be forever. Just for long enough for you to get better.  
Long enough for me to work on myself.  
I watched you leave through the window; I couldn't bear to be outside. I watched the car roll up and you pack your suitcase into the trunk. Watched as you turned to me and wiped your tears away, offering one last gleaming smile before you drove away.  
And you were gone.


	3. Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so so so short ok

I wish I could say I kept my promise and didn't drink after you left.  
This was good for us, my mates insisted. Gave us time to grow less dependent on each other. Deep down, I think I knew that, but it didn't save me from hating every second we were apart.  
It got easier, though.  
Our phone calls were hours long; I leaned on the wall in the kitchen, smiling as you tried to stifle your laughter. You told me that the coast was nice this time of year, and you liked helping out in the bakery. Told me about the stray cat that occasionally wandered in and curled up on the counter. You named him Henry. I told you about how the leaves were changing here; about how our backyard was buried under a blanket of dead leaves. You told me you wished you could have seen them, and I promised to press the best ones in a book for you.  
Winter came quickly, and before long I was stuck in our house almost every day. I was just grateful the phone lines still worked. You teased me about how the coast was still warm; well, warm enough that you weren't freezing, at least. Henry slept on the foot of your bed every night now; you laughed as you joked about bringing home a son.  
You sent me an envelope a few weeks later, filled with pictures and pressed flowers. I hung them all up by our bed. My favorite was of you in the bakery, your hair covered with flour and a giddy grin on your face. You looked so, so happy. I couldn't have asked for anything more.  
I think, over that year, we fell back in love. Maybe the distance made us see things in each other we hadn't before.  
Whatever it was, I'm grateful.


	4. Christmas (p. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this completely out of season? Absolutely. Do I care? Absolutely not. This is short but whatever I'm posting it anyway to motivate myself to keep working on this YEET

For Christmas, you sent me a new sketching set. For the rest of winter, I spent my time curled up by the fire and filling the sketchbook you'd sent me. A lot of it was landscapes; the fields outside our house, a view of our street, some of the brownstone buildings in town; but most of it was portraits. Several of Roger and Maurice, and even a few of Samantha and Eric. Sam kept one of hers; said in a teasing tone that it was the first good picture of her in years. She framed it on her wall, which, naturally, tortured me. No artist likes their own art.

Eventually, I started drawing you, too. It’s almost embarrassing, but I always did it from memory; I’ve spent years memorizing your features, after all. Those I kept in their own folder, for fear of ruining them somehow. God knows I’d already ruined _you._

You also sent me a picture of Henry; he was fat and orange, curled up on your lap like he was meant to be there. _”We’re dads, Jack!!”_ you wrote in careful cursive (as you always did- I will never figure out how you are so patient, _honestly_ ), and I gently traced my fingers along the lines. In your letter, you gushed about how much you loved him, and I chuckled softly to myself as I realized I was going to be stuck with him when you got back. As I continued to gaze at the picture at the top of the letter, my mind started drifting back to the Christmases we’d spent together in the past.

It’s our first Christmas together; Year 12. We each gave halfarsed excuses to our families as to why we had to stay at school over Winter Break,

_”I failed an exam. I need to stay and study to make it up. I can’t possibly check all those library books out and bring them home, can I?”_

_”I’ve got reading to do, and I can’t bring antique books home. I can call you, though. Yes, I’ll write.”_

so we could spend Christmas with each other. We spent lots of time taking walks around campus, our hands wound together and hidden in a pocket so they wouldn’t freeze. I’d reach over and tug your scarf down to kiss you, which always made you laugh; and _God,_ if that isn’t my favorite sound. Winter is one of the times in which you are the most beautiful; the cold turns your cheeks and nose red; sometimes tiny snowflakes get caught in your eyelashes; and, of course, there’s the way the flames reflect on your face when we sit in front of a fire.

I lean forward, gently, to get a better view of your face as I sketch. You don’t notice, as your face is buried deeply in a book. As you read, you gently bite your lower lip, and I feel my breath catch in my chest.

You are impossibly beautiful, and I never deserved you. Falling in love with you was the cruelest thing I’ve ever done. Suddenly I'm staring at you and I'm wondering, _how did I get here?_

And then you’re looking up and smiling at me, and all my thoughts melt away as I smile back.

Our next Christmas was early, as that year we hadn’t been able to weasel our way out of going home to our families for Winter Break. We spent the night before we were supposed to leave in bed together. Having sex, yes, but mostly just enjoying each other’s company; one of my arms lazily slung over your waist, your head on my chest, and your fingers gently curled into my hair. The goodbye in the morning was drawn-out and dramatic, as our goodbyes always were.

The Christmas after that was our last, or so it had seemed for just over a year afterwards. After graduation we’d gotten a flat together near the university (under the guise of being _just flatmates,_ of course). It was tiny, and cramped, with too-thin walls and creaky floors, but it was _ours_ and we could finally do as we pleased. By the time Christmas rolled around, we were closer than ever. Most of that night is hazy; I remember dancing together slowly, my arms around your hips, your face against my neck, and your arms over my shoulders; me murmuring in your ear, gentle kisses, soft laughter muffled against shoulders. Moonlight caught in your hair, lips against bare skin, fingers grasping at fabric, silence shattered by broken moans.

And, of course, the next morning.

_”So… you remember, in the summer of Year 12, how we had that conversation about my parents?”_

I scoffed. _”Which one?”_

_”The one about them wanting me to marry.”_

I remained silent for a few moments, a sick feeling quickly forming in my stomach.

_”Wanting me to marry… you know. A woman.”_

I pushed myself up to sit against our headboard, and you followed suit. _”Our first big fight, yeah. Why are you bringing it up now?”_

_”Well…”_ You nervously drummed your fingers against your thigh, following no particular rhythm. _”They sort of… brought it up again. At dinner last night.”_

My hands instinctively clenched into fists as you continued.

_”They started talking about… well, they began to_ suspect _that…”_

_”That what? You’re shagging your flatmate?”_

_”Jack, don’t_ say _it like that-”_

_”But that’s what you mean, right?”_

_”Yes. That’s what I mean.”_

_”So what are you going to do about it? Are you going to tell them the truth?”_

You looked down at that, worrying your lip between your teeth. _”I don’t know.”_

_”What do you mean,_ you don’t know?”

_”I_ mean, _I don’t_ know.”

You pause again, and slowly venture a glance at me. _”I don’t think I can.”_

I stood up at that, casting the bedsheets aside. _”Are you_ bloody _kidding me?! We’ve been together_ three years, _Ralph! We_ live _together! I was just inside you, for fuck’s sake!”_

_”Jack!_ You jumped up, too, desperation on your face. _”Please, try to be civil-”_

_”Civil? I should be civil? Ralph, you have to tell them_ sometime, _why keep putting it off? I told my parents-”_

_”And they disowned you! I can’t have that happen, Jack, I_ can’t-”

_”So you’re just going to keep hiding it? For how long, Ralph?”_

_”I don’t_ know! _I don’t have the option to just cut them off like that, Jack!”_

_”Oh, yeah, cause they’re such fantastic parents.”_

_”They pay for my schooling, at least! How else am I going to manage that?”_

_”Is that all it is, then? Money?_

_”No! I mean- yes, but… well, kind of.”_

_”So it’s still the fucking inheritance?”_

_”Jack, please-”_

_”No! Just admit it!”_

_”It’s not just the inheritance! They’re my parents, Jack, they love me-”_

_”If they love you so much, why are you worried about them disowning you?”_

_”It’s- I’m not-”_

_”So you’re just ashamed of me, then.”_

“No, _Jack, It’s more complicated than that!”_

_”No, it’s not. You’re-”_ I swallowed thickly, the words stinging my throat like bile. _”You’re just a coward. A bloody_ fucking _coward.”_

That had made you cry. You collapsed back onto the bed, hiding your face in your hands. I could have comforted you; could have apologized; hell, I _should_ have. But we both know I’m not like that. I’m volatile, and destructive, and I burn things up without meaning to.  
_”Get out.”_ You muttered after a while. _”Just… get out, Jack.”_

And I did, without another word.


	5. A Phone Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Ralph haven't spoken in months. Their friends decide they're going to make them.

“Samantha.”  
“Roger.”  
“I’m sure you know why I’m calling.”  
“Yes, I do.”  
“How has Ralph been holding up?”  
There’s a silence on the other end, stretching for a few moments. “Not well. Not at all. He rarely leaves the house, besides to go to school or when we force him.” Another silence. “What about Jack?”  
Roger sighs, pushing his hair back. “You know him. He’s trying to act like he doesn’t care, but it’s not working. Not that it ever did, but it’s worse lately. Although it’s manifesting in anger more than depression.” A short pause. “Again; you know how he is.”  
“I do.” Samantha shifts in her chair, crossing her legs and balancing her cocoa mug in her lap. “Simon thinks we should try to get them back together. At least to talk about it. I mean, _Christ,_ it’s been how many months? They haven’t so much as spoken since Jack moved his things out. It’s almost scary.”  
“It _is_ scary,” Roger agreed. “Simon’s right. We should try, at least. They’re both miserable like this, but-”  
“They’re too stubborn to admit it.” Samantha finished with a laugh. “Really, they’re such children sometimes. It’s painful to watch.”  
“Very.” Roger rolled his eyes. “Well, how do we do it?”  
“Simon says it needs to be on neutral ground. Somewhere that won’t upset them. You know, not the flat, or that cafe they liked, or anywhere like that.”  
“Of course he’d think like that. Always the diplomat.”  
“He was thinking maybe Bill’s flat? At first we thought Peter’s flat, but, well. That’s likely to put Jack more on edge. And Simon’s flat would calm Ralph, but not Jack. Yours the other way around. And, well… frankly, nobody else wants to volunteer their place, in case it gets messy.”  
Roger nodded. “That’s a fair concern.” He moved to stretch out in his chair, hanging his head over the arm. “When should we try?”  
“Sunday, maybe? Nobody’s working, as far as I know, so we could all go together. Sort of an intervention.”  
“Mm.” Roger hummed in agreement. “That sounds alright, yeah. Around lunchtime?”  
“Perfect. I can tell Ralph it’s just for lunch, and Jack, well…”  
“Jack doesn’t need to know. I’ll just drag him along, he won’t care about what we’re going for. Well- not until he sees Ralph, anyway.”  
“Wacco. I’ll see you then.” Another pause, longer than the last. “I really hope it goes well.”  
“So do I.” Roger said quietly, his voice laced with concern. “I don’t like seeing them like this.”  
“Oh,” Samantha hopped up as her kettle started to whistle. “That’s the cocoa. I’ll talk to you later, Rog.”  
“Let me know if anything changes.”  
“Of course.”

 

“Sam, why are we going to _Bill’s_ place? We never go to Bill’s place.” Ralph complained from the passenger seat of the car, turning to look at her in the back seat.  
“Well, first of all, he’s my boyfriend, so I really don’t think it’s that unusual.”  
“I suppose not.” Ralph shifted back, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. He wasn’t stupid- he had felt that something was off since Simon, Sam, Eric, Piggy, and _Maurice_ had shown up at his flat that morning. Not that any of them made him uncomfortable, particularly; but there was something about them all being there at once that set him on edge. He had a feeling in his gut like something was coming, but he couldn’t place _what,_ and _that_ was what he really couldn’t stand. Despite any and all questions he asked, everyone insisted they were just going over for lunch. Ralph, more than anything, hated being out of control; hated not knowing all of what was going on; so, as Simon drove down the road, and they approached Bill’s house, his anxiety only grew.

 

“Get in the car, arsehole.” Roger had said as soon as Jack opened his door. “We’re getting food.” Jack opened his mouth to protest, but Roger cut him off. “Don’t. I know you haven’t been eating, Jack. We’re getting you food, and that’s final.”  
Jack had been too busy sulking in the car to notice that they weren’t headed towards the stores. Instead of paying attention, he had his arms crossed over his chest, and was staring at a hole in his jeans.  
Finally, as they got onto the highway, he looked up and frowned. “Why are we going south? I thought we were going to the stores.”  
“I never said that. I said we were getting food. Never said from where.” Roger glanced at Jack from the corner of his eye.  
Jack glared back at him. “What are you doing, Rog?”  
Roger simply shrugged, and turned the radio up. “It’s for your own good, Chief.”

 

Bill’s kitchen was nice. It was painted a soft, pastel yellow, and all the furniture was white and old-looking. It gave the room a comforting, cottage-like vibe. His whole home was like that; small, painted in gentle colors, and decorated with furniture so old it was almost antique.  
The second they got there, Maurice had turned on a record in the living room, so slow music- something from the 50s, Ralph thought- floated into the kitchen below the sounds of his friends talking and laughing. That’s where everyone else was; they’d all taken their tea and sandwiches and curled up on Bill’s couches and chairs, and were chatting idly away. Ralph had stayed in the kitchen, as his anxiety was still coiled tightly in his gut. He was sitting at one of the dining chairs, legs crossed under him as he slowly drank his tea. He wasn’t really interested in it; lately, for some reason, food hadn’t interested him much at all. Nothing really tasted like much anymore, and Ralph’s appetite wasn’t big, so he didn’t really see the point in eating. Deep down, he knew this was unhealthy, but examining that would mean examining why he was so depressed, and, well… he wasn’t ready to deal with that yet.  
It had been four and a half months since he’d last seen Jack, and his feelings for him hadn’t eased at all. Neither had the heartbreak. He still woke up every morning expecting Jack to be there, and it always took him a good few minutes to calm the aching in his chest at that fact. The flat felt cold and quiet without Jack; Ralph sometimes tried playing music to ease the silence, but it always made it worse, because every song he played ended up reminding him of Jack.  
It hurt being reminded of Jack.  
It wasn’t as if everything was completely bleak, though. He had his friends, and they helped. Sam had taken it upon herself to make sure Ralph was eating right, Simon would come over to help him clean the house, and Piggy would help him study, or just sit and read to Ralph if it was a particularly hard day.  
Ralph idly fiddled with the handle of his cup as his thoughts wandered.  
_I wonder if he misses me like I miss him._  
His heart ached softly as he curled further in on himself.  
_I wonder if he misses me at all._  
And Ralph became engrossed in his thoughts, to the point where he didn’t hear the front door opening.

 

“Rog, why are we here?” Jack frowned, standing on the street in front of Bill’s house.  
“He invited us.” Roger shrugged, locking his car and shoving his keys in his pocket. “Said he invited some of the other choir boys over too. Reunion, or something.”  
“We all saw each other a month and a half ago.”  
“Yeah, well. Bill’s sentimental like that.” Roger glanced back at Jack as he knocked on Bill’s door. “You are going to stay, right?”  
“Yes.” Jack finally uncrossed his arms, choosing instead to jam them into the coats of his jacket. “You’re my ride, anyway, so where would I go?”  
Maurice was the one who opened the door, still laughing at something as he did. As soon as he spotted Jack (and Roger had sidestepped Maurice to get into the house) he wrapped his arm around Jack’s neck in a hug. “You came out of the house!” He teased.  
Jack rolled his eyes, gently elbowing Maurice in the side. “Bugger off. I’ve been busy.”  
“Uh-huh, sure. Too busy to respond to my texts, too? I’m hurt. I thought we were friends.” Maurice feigned sadness, dramatically flinging his arm over his forehead. “Oh, how you wound me, Jack!”  
Jack snorted, a slow smile finally creeping onto his face. “Okay, okay, I get it. I know I’ve been sort of a hermit lately, I’m just…”  
“I know.” Maurice said, his tone getting soft as he got more serious. “It’s okay.”  
Jack tensed slightly. He didn’t like acknowledging that he had human emotions in the first place. The feeling of being pitied made him uncomfortable and defensive, out of instinct. He took a slow breath to calm himself down, and relaxed his shoulders. “Is it that obvious why…”  
“Yes.” Maurice nodded. “It is. Really, though, Jack, it’s okay. I know it’s difficult.” Maurice perked back up, and clapped Jack on the back as he led him into the house. “That’s why we’re here, though!”  
It was then that Jack noticed that the house had gone oddly quiet. The music that he’d heard playing at first, as well as the laughter emanating from the living room, was gone.  
_Why did it get quiet?_  
“Maurice.” Jack asked warily, as they rounded the corner to the kitchen. “What’s going o-” He stopped dead as soon as he was past the doorframe, his feet cementing him into place.  
Ralph was standing on the other side of the room, standing by the dining room table with his arms crossed defensively over his chest. Everyone else; Roger, Maurice, Bill, Sam, Eric, Simon, Piggy; was standing close to the door to the living room, looking between the two nervously.  
For what felt like hours, nobody said anything. There was only the icy tension in the room, and Ralph’s expression; vulnerable, and fearful.  
Finally, Jack spoke.  
“Well, _shit.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i promise this fic hasn't been abandoned. i have most of the rest of the plot mapped out, it's just a matter of writing it! i can't promise my update schedule will be perfect, but i am going to plan to do it at least twice a month. thank you for sticking around, it means a lot <3<3


	6. Final Update/Repost Plans

I made a post about this on my Tumblr [here](https://csharpmorelikedsharp.tumblr.com/post/183661574920/fic-update-tonight-i-am-going-to-be-scrapping-the), but I'm going to copy and paste it here, too, because I know not all of you follow me there, and I don't want people not to know why I scrapped this!

Tonight I am going to be scrapping the Jalph fic I have on AO3. It’s not going anywhere, though! I’ll probably delete it eventually, but for now, I’m leaving it up as is, but won’t be updating it anymore.

I’ve decided I don’t like the way it’s structured, and there are  _many_   _many_  grammatical and chronological errors, as well as entire chapters and passages I’m not happy with. I’m going to edit, restructure, and repost it. The chapters of the fic will not be in the order they are now, and some will be posted on their own as oneshots. Those will probably all be posted within the next few days. As for the actual full-length fic, I’m going to be writing an actual outline, writing the rest in advance, and posting updates every two weeks. I’ll be posting more updates on (my Tumblr) as I go. Thank you for your patience!


End file.
